Every year millions of hard body hot co-eds flock to the beaches of Florida for one reason…..Spring Break. Spring Break is a time of fun in the sun and drunken debauchery.  When you discuss spring break most people think of one place, Daytona Beach, the holy grail of inebriated one night stands. When I was in college I never made a spring break trip to Daytona Beach.  I have lived in Florida my entire life and had never once been there, that was until this past summer.

I was so excited to have a weekend getaway with friends this past June. I was leaving my kids and husband for two days to go to a Cross fit competition, and have some kid-free fun. I had high hopes for Daytona Beach. Picture it, cool ocean breeze with a drink in my hand, my stress melting away, it would be epic.

The drive into Daytona quickly changed my view on what the weekend would become. To say that the area was shady was a galactic understatement.  We drove past “Frank’s Caskets, Caskets, and more.” Which prompted me to ask my friend where our hotel was located? I was hoping we would be staying closer to the beach and further from the cemetery. We must have passed five police cars while driving towards the strip. I was more than nervous about where we would end up. We did book our hotel on a bargain travel website for 50% off. I began to reconsider my policy on travel frugality.

We eventually ended up out front of our hotel.  It didn’t have a parking lot next to the building so we had to run across the highway with our luggage, playing “Frogger” with our lives.  We walked up to the check-in desk to obtain our keys. We were given coupon books for local retailers including “Diamond Dolls” where you could cash in a 2 for 1 lap dance voucher; you better believe I held onto that precious piece of paper.  We barely made it past the counter when my friend was what I could only call accosted by the gay concierge. He was more “handsy” then Pee-Wee Herman at an Adult film festival.

We made our way up to our rooms and found that the air conditioning was broken on our floor. No big deal, its only June. My friends were staying down the hall from me and my roommate had yet to arrive. I walked with them into their room to check it out. It was a pretty standard hotel room. Bit musty, plain white walls, cliché hotel art above the bed, and a mini fridge. They set down their luggage and walked me to my room. We opened the door to what became known as the “Red room” for the weekend.  The walls were painted red, the furniture was new, Ikea brad I could tell. Carpet was a bit wet and mushy, and the Crème de la Crème, a murder stain. Yes, what I believed to be a full-on blood pool in the carpet. The room had been redone minus the death stain. I am pretty sure it is common practice to pull up and remove the carpet from a crime scene. What the fuck happened in this room? I turned to my friends and asked, “Can I stay with you until my roommate gets here?”

We eventually headed out to grab a bite to eat. We walked down the beach for what seemed like miles. We ended up in a nicer area of the strip. People who could afford rooms without murder-stains I supposed. After dinner it was dark so we decided to walk back to the hotel on the street. It was as close to the Bronx’s as I could have imagined. Don’t get upset New Yorker’s, I am Florida born and have no frame of reference for a really rough neighborhood. I can only envision it is like what I see on TV, I watch a lot of “Law and Order.” Bars on every window, neon signs flashing like a disco, and security alarm signs and stickers pasted on every surface.

We passed a hotel with a sign that plainly stated “No Crime Here!” I wasn’t sure if the sign was advertising that crime wasn’t allowed or they hadn’t recently had any. It was alarming none the less. It was the longest, scariest walk I had ever made. I now completely understood why this place was so appealing to college kids, and not Disney movie watching mothers. I was scared to death.

We made it back to the hotel and found that my roommate had arrived, along with some of the other members of our party. I walked my roommate up to the room. She was less than impressed with our accommodations; her first question was “Do you think we will get bed bugs?” I hadn’t even thought of that. WTF, now I am going to go home with bed bugs and potentially an STD from our toilet bowl.

We decided to head out to a bar to have a drink. We weren’t two minutes down the road when we hit a section with yellow caution tape and six police cars lined up along the street. Suspects on the ground, sirens blaring and I am pretty sure the “Cops” camera crew filming while the “Bad Boys” theme song filling the air. This is not the Daytona Beach I had heard about. It was not swaying palms and endless margaritas.  At that point in the vacation, which was only about 6 hours in, I decided to name this awful place #stanktona.  I had never actually hash tagged anything in my life. To be honest I didn’t know what hash-tagging did. But I went around town like the Queen fucking bee of hashtags. It went something like this; #bumonthestreet, #stayclassydaytona, #prostituteoncorner, #WTFisonthisbench?

We ended up making it through the night, but left the next day after our competition. I quickly found out that I am not nearly as hardcore as I once thought I was. I took my bed bug filled laundry and new hash-tagging ability home with me. I had never been so happy to go home to my bed. Daytona, I shall not return unless I wish to get tetanus and Chlamydia. So I bid you farewell and I promise to always pay triple digit minimums for my hotel rooms from this point forward.

With the current divorce rate over 50% in the United States, couples often look for ways to keep their marriage fresh and exciting. It’s kind of like professional development for your love life, a constant continuing educational program to keep you out of  divorce court. I have been married for 11 years, and have been in a relationship with my husband for over 18 years.  I also recently heard that the seven-year itch has been replaced with the five-year itch, and more and more couples are dabbling in the world of swinging. Yes, swinging! You know 1970’s keys in the fishbowl kind of parties.  I find all of this very interesting. In fact I also started doing some of my own research to see what types of marital aids and activities keep couples together, obviously I need to do this because I am now a writer, Duh.

Let’s talk about some of my research. A few years back I was introduced to smut novels. I had never read one and I wasn’t sure what to expect. A good friend of mine lent me a copy of 50 Shades of Grey. Holy Shit! That book could have jump started the engine in a 1908 Model T Ford. It was a page turner to say the least. I had never gotten my kids ready for bed so quickly in my life. “You have to go to bed and stay in bed. Mommy has to have a long hard talk with Daddy tonight.” It was all the rage across the county. I did place my copy of the book inside of a magazine at the dentist’s office so no one knew I was reading it.  My fear was the old woman next to me would think, “Look at that dirty bird reading that filth, what a slut.”  Let me close by saying that I had never read a series of books so quickly, and my husband definitively stated that it was the best summer of his life. So I give a green light on smut novels.

I next took a look at the vast plethora of internet pornography. It in no way interests me, but I do understand that it a multi-billion dollar industry so there must be some allure there. If you ask me, the acting is dreadful and the plot lacking. “I’m here to fix your plumbing ma ’me.” “Oh yes, I need a big strong man to bring his long stiff pipe in here now!” When I need a plumber it is mostly likely due to the fact that my 4-year-old stuck an action figure, or my keys down the toilet. I would only call that plumber after I failed several time trying to plunge it out myself, which would lead to pools of shit water on the floor. I am not paying anyone to do a job that I might be able to tackle. And I can guarantee that the plumber I hire will  look less like Taylor Lautner, and more like Homer Simpson.

Lingerie, another billion dollar industry can be as classy or trashy as you like. You might be a Fredericks of Hollywood type of lady, or spend your money on purchasing Victoria’s Secret. Either way the idea is to excite your lover with lace, gems, and jewels that play hide and seek with your nipples. My poor husband hasn’t seen lingerie in several years. My nipples need an optometrist; they are cross-eyed from numerous years of breastfeeding. I know it’s best for baby, but WTF I use to have cute perky breasts that looked in the same direction. Now, my husband tilts his head and looks confused, like he doesn’t know which one to look at.

Swinging is happening all around us. Don’t think for a second that it isn’t happening in your town. You can join Swinglife.com or download the Random Naughty hook up dating app to meet naughty couples in your area. I haven’t figured out how swinging saves marriages. “Hey Honie, how about we spice it up with the neighbors? I have wanted to tap that ass for a few years now.” I am sure this works for some people, variety is the spice of life they say. However, my husband would have to have my foot surgically removed from his ass if he asked me to swing. Although all of my neighbors are in their 70’s, so unless he has an old person fetish I might be safe.

Moving on to the last zesty tidbit I have for you. A few years back I was introduced to the Merkin. If you are interested in seeing a variety of images, just search #Merkin, you will get lost for hours. I apologize in advance for this. I was having lunch with a group of colleagues at work when someone was discussing the infamous Merkin. So of course I asked, “What is a Merkin?” I can’t take that question back now, but I wish I had. My friend graciously Google imaged that shit and I became all too aware of the mysterious Merkin.  A Merkin is a pubic wig. Yes, it is a modern-day codpiece of hair that replaces your own pubic hair.

I began to read about the Merkin and was shocked to learn that you need to first wax off all of your pubic hair to attach the pubic wig. Why on God’s green earth would I wax off all of my pubic hair to replace it with a wig? How on earth is this a hot commodity? Why are people buying these? I continued to search through the thousands of pictures of Merkins and found that your Merkin could resemble a variety of items. It could be a  bedazzled Peacock feather, several pieces of bacon, a long wizard beard, bow tie, kitten face, and so much more. Merkins are not only for women. Watch out ladies, your man may show up with a Merkin shaped like a hot dog.  This could create a problem however.  Now you’re not only horney but you are also hungry. “Hold on Babe, I gotta grab a sandwich before we bang.”

So as you can see, there are several options for keeping your love life in full bloom. You can try one or try all. Getting married is easy, staying married is a shit ton of work. What works for one, may not work for the other. The moral of the story is to do what you have to do to keep your Merkin Smirkin J


*From this point forward in my blog I will be referring to my children as number one, number two, and number three, just like I do at home.


I had a very trying weekend. I found myself asking the same questions over and over. I had several arguments about teeth brushing, cleaning up toys, going to bed, and fist fighting. It led me to a question that left me quietly sedated while on the couch watching TV. “What if once were enough?” What would happen if I asked my kids or my husband to do something once, and it actually happened the first time?

Friday morning while in a mad panic to get number three to school on time, I asked number one and two to brush their teeth. “Were not getting out of the car so we don’t have to brush our teeth,” was the reply. “I asked you to brush your teeth, go do it,” was my reply. Five minutes later I find them both on the ground spilling mouth wash in each other’s hair. Bubble gum flavored blue mouth wash poured all over the floor. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I screamed. “We’re brushing our teeth.” Are you fucking serious. This is not what I asked them to do. “Get off the floor and brush your teeth.” I come back in three minutes later and one is on the toilet while the other is coloring. “Get up and brush your teeth or I am going to lose it.” My empty threats just hanging in the air like a stale fart. Finally they exit the bathroom and I can only hope they brushed their teeth. Most days their breath smells like a cat litter box after they have claimed to have brushed their teeth.

We get to school and drop off number three. Next stop is the grocery store. I begin to speed shop so we can get out of there without any major issues. I am literally running up and down aisles throwing essentials in the cart, hoping to make it out of there without spending $200 dollars, which never happens. I look over and see number one running his fingers across every item on the shelf. “Don’t touch those, they are going to fall.” We continued moving, next aisle is cereal. I look back again and see him continuing to man handle the Captain Crunch.  “Please do not touch the items on the shelf.” I am almost on a full sprint as we pass the goldfish when I hear a big crash. I look back and see number one in a pile of Ritz Bits crackers looking shocked. “Hurry up and pick those up!” I whisper scream at him. You know what that it. When you crouch down and whisper in a mean scary voice while smiling hoping that they will finally listen to the words coming out of your mouth. The embarrassment swelling up as other customers begin to watch the situation.

We leave the store and head home to start the rest of the day. I am already exhausted and it’s only 10:00 A.M. The day moves on without too much drama.  We have dinner that night and finish our bedtime routine. I begin to tell my husband about our day and I start to complain about the excessive number of times I seem to ask the same question. I explain that I can’t take another day of begging and pleading over teeth brushing and bed times. He looks at me and says, “Well, if you would punish them when they don’t listen maybe they would do it the first time.” To say I lost my shit would be an understatement.  I am amazed that Google earth didn’t get an image of me shoving my husband’s head directly up his anus.

If I punished them every time they didn’t do something I asked the first time, they would never be out of punishment. Dealing with three children under the age of nine is like trying to control an impending volcanic eruption. They are a force of nature that can tear your house into pieces. So after I helped remove my husband head from his sphincter, I realized that he too suffers from this disorder.

“Can you wash the dishes?” I ask. “Yes, I’ll get to it,” he states. I continue to switch laundry and clean up toys. Magically my husband has moved from the kitchen to the couch. “I thought you were going to do the dishes?” I stated. “They are soaking.” Really, I think to myself. Why do they have to soak, we had soup. So I ask yet again, “Are you going to do the dishes?” And the reply is the same; yeah he will get to it. Eventually after an hour of Sports Center he looks over to see me finish the dishes. “Honie, I said I would do the dishes.”  He sweetly states. I smile at him thinking to myself, I thought about doing you tonight, but instead I had to do the dishes. He would have gotten laid if once were enough. So the thought continues to rattle around my empty tired head. What would life look like?

My blood pressure would be a thing of beauty, that’s for sure. I would probably lose less hair and have fewer wrinkle lines. The hair that remains on my head probably wouldn’t be gray and frizzy. Some days I look like I stuck a fork in the light socket and hung on for dear life. I would look rested and rejuvenated. I would wake up in the morning and perhaps put on something besides my Mom uniform, which is worn out  yoga pants and a stained  t-shirt.

This line of questioning however is doing me no favors. I am positive that I am not alone in the” If Once Were Enough Club.” It is a mythical alternate universe, one that does not exist. I guarantee that If once were enough, life would be boring and mundane. I would most likely die of a heart attack if I asked number one or two to clean up the toy room and they did it the first time. I would sit patiently for the end of the world to occur and be fearful of the locusts and impending doom.  My life is a fucking side-show and I wouldn’t have it any other way. “Five tickets to the circus please, Number three get your hand out of the lion’s cage, I’m not asking again!”  Yeah right ;)


It seems like every day a new reality TV show pops up. There are shows that display the daily lives of celebrities, Moms that can’t dance, so they force their kids to, and poor lost souls who hoard and live in filth. I am over reality television. I am sick and tired of watching the Kardashians bitch over their rough lives and watch as they spend more money then I will ever make in my lifetime. Whose reality is this? Who do you know that can go into a store and spend without limits without getting their car repossessed, or the credit card companies calling every day to shame them into making a payment? When I am at the store with my family the scenario is more like The Hunger Games than anything else. We are going into an arena of battle. “Mom, can I have this?” “No, I don’t have a coupon for that.” “So what, I really want it and you said if I was good you would get me something.” “Well in that case, when you graduate high school and get the fuck out of my house I will buy you something.  That will be good for me.”

I am not saying that having wealth will make me happy; I am also NOT saying that. What I am saying is that if people want reality television I can give them that. Most people I know live like me. They work too much. Have too many bills. Eat drive thru meals weekly, and don’t have access to nannies, maids, or personal trainers. Why do we watch these so-called reality programs? My only logical thought is that it is an escape from our own reality.

Come; follow me for a true glimpse of realty. Last week I blew a tire on the interstate. I beat my kid with a flip-flop on the way to school. I forgot to pay the water bill and my when I got home from work with three smelly dirty troll children, my water was shut off.  After grocery shopping the other day I got into a screaming match with my three-year old who proceeded to pee his pants in the middle of the kitchen, where I had just unloaded all of my groceries. That’s right. He pissed on my groceries.

I’ve got reality. I was at a Labor Day party for a total of five minutes before my daughter was launched from the bouncy water slide and catapulted across the lawn and broke her arm. I spent the next four hours in the emergency room praying I was at an in-network hospital. “Are you sure she needs an x-ray? I mean she is pretty tough, tiger blood genetics.” The doctor just looked at me and shook his head. He wasn’t going to get an astronomical bill that would take a year to pay off. BOOM! Now that is some shitty reality.

Reality for most of us is not blowing through cash and daily shopping sprees. One time I watched an episode where the Kardashians learned to coupon. What the fuck? Are you serious? I have to coupon. I didn’t learn because it looked like fun. I must spend hours cutting, printing, and organizing a shopping list. If I don’t I have to pick which items go back. “Ma’am, do you want the toilet paper? No that’s ok; we will keep wiping our asses with our hands.”

Come on! How on earth is what we watch on TV everyday reality? If we are being honest I know why I haven’t gotten a contract for a reality show. I wouldn’t make it through a season before someone called the cops on me for some type of “abuse”. I tell my kids to go to bed or Poopy the coon will sniff around the house looking naughty children to eat. Fear works people, and I need some freaking sleep. I wield a flip-flop on a daily basis and I am a firm believer in a spanking.

My show could feature episodes of how dinner actually gets made when you cook it yourself. I can show the world how I clean toilets, wipe asses, battle cellulite without surgery, and get up and do it again day after day. I have a completely dysfunctional family, my parents and in-laws live in a five-mile radius of me.   I am pretty sure that the reality I live is closer to your reality then that of The Kardashians. Call the networks. Demand that we feature real families on our reality TV programming. Wait, that is probably a bad idea. No one would watch this. I was just kidding. My reality is pretty scary. Watch the pretty people with lots of money. They wear shiny things and keep us distracted so we can make it through the true reality that we face every day.


Have you ever sat back and thought about the fairy tales that we tell our children. The Grimm Brothers were most definitely grim and their tales are frightening to me even as a grown adult. Think about it. Hansel and Gretel; the story of a creepy old woman, who steals children, and takes them into the woods. Feeding them like cattle, getting them ready for slaughter, to become a winter’s stew.  Snow White; a young girl whose mother dies and father marries a wicked woman who eventually becomes queen. After the father dies of a “suspicious death” she decides to kill Snow White to become the fairest woman in all the land. Let’s be honest, that is a shitty Step Mother. She takes the cake compared to the step Moms I see on the Maury Povich show that are sleeping with their step daughters boyfriends.

The reason this popped into my mind recently is because I realized that I tell scary stories to my children as well. The tales I tell are specifically geared to get my kids to do the things that I want them to do. They are cautionary tales designed to scare the shit out of them and make my life easier. I’m not going to lie. This was a gem passed down to me from my mother, who had it passed down from her Mother. I am sure the stories are an oral history account of how screwed up my family tree truly is.

If you have children, you know how hard it is to get them to go to bed, and stay in bed. It is a monumental task of perseverance. Who is going to be the last one standing? Who will survive the game of Chicken? In order to get my Mother to go to bed my Grandmother told my mom that she could sleep in her room on the floor. She did however say, “But, be careful and watch for the rats.” “What rats?” my mother asked. “The rats that live under my bed,they come out at night” stated my grandmother. My Mom was cured of her night-time affliction. She slept in her bed from that night on.

My Mom said it was very difficult to get me to go to bed at night as well. I would come out several times a night begging and pleading to sleep in their room. Finally my mother sat me down and told me the story of the little girl who wouldn’t sleep.  The girl would get out of her bed and whine and complain. All of the whining and crying was heard by the old woman at the local orphanage. The woman would walk the streets in the evening searching for bad little children who wouldn’t go to sleep. My Mom told me that if I wasn’t going to go to sleep she would have to put me on the door step and the old woman from the orphanage would come to our house and steal me away. The woman then sold the children to farms. Apparently I wasn’t afraid of this and I called my mother’s bluff. My mom did the only thing she could; she put me on the door step in the middle of the night and locked the door.  Child abuse you say? No, mastermind I think. My Mom said I cried for about a minutes and then told her if she let me back in I would go straight to bed. I did, and I never called her bluff again.

I found that this system of stories and fear could be a powerful parenting tool. As my family grew, I experienced some of the same issues my mother had. My daughter and youngest son would throw terrible temper tantrums. They are very close in age and when one would start a tantrum, the other felt it necessary to join in and attempt to raise the dead with their shrill screams and stomping feet. I was sitting there unsure of what to do and right in mid fit I saw a raccoon walking across the back yard. I said, “Look. Do you know who that is?” My children immediately stopped and turned. “Yes, Mommy, it’s a raccoon.” “No, that is Poopy the Coon” I said.  “Who is Poopy the Coon?” they asked. Well here is where it got interesting. They both had stopped their fit and sat down to listen to my story.

I began to tell them that Poopy the Coon was a Raccoon that ate bad children. He came out of the woods when he heard them screaming. He would wait by the edge of the grass and listen. If the children began to whine and cry Poopy knew it was time to visit the house and steal the children. They sat still as statues, in sheer fear.  What had I done? Was I a prodigy of my Mother, or a tyrant, ruling with threats and fear? Did I care? Hell no! The kids were quiet and the fit was over. I had won the battle, but the war raged on.

Over the years I have made up several scenarios where my kids get eaten by wild animals for misbehaving in the grocery store, stolen by creepy red-faced strangers to get them to hold my hand in the parking lot, and so many more. There is something to be said for the fear factor. As humans, fear drives us to be careful and stay out of harm’s way. I am fully aware that my story telling will never win me the coveted “Mom of the Year” award. But if were being honest not much of what I do will get my name on the list. At some point my children will know that Poopy the Coon is just a nocturnal trash picker, with no ill will toward them. However, until that becomes a reality I will Call on Poopy the Coon to restore the peace and quiet to my home.



I would like to start this blog off with a statement; I was once a first time Mom. If this story offends you, please keep reading, I promise you will take something out of it. You may want to send me some hate mail afterward, feel free. However, my point in writing this is that we were all first time Mom’s and there are plenty of lessons to be learned.  With that being said, I want to share a story of transition that comes with motherhood.

I was sitting with a group of friends the other day talking about our kids, husbands, and the daily grind type of topics.  I have three children, two of my other friends at the table have four, one girl has two, and a few of the women are new Moms.  I always find it interesting when we discuss the kids, just how different our views are on parenting are.

I still remember how frantic and overzealous I was with my first child. I would sterilize every bottle and nipple with purified drinking water, wash his clothing in allergen free detergents and I even used organic baby wipes. I wouldn’t take a shower if I was home alone with the baby, for fear that he may move in his crib and I wouldn’t witness it.  I would just stare at him to make sure he was breathing. I ran to him at every peep he made, as though I heard the starting gun fire for the 100 Meter dash.  I remember giving a Mom in Wal-Mart a dirty look for putting her toddler in the shopping cart without the proper cart cover. How was she planning to keep away all the germs and various diseases that her Pediatrician hadn’t vaccinated her child for as of yet? How could she just throw her child into an unsanitary shopping cart? The nerve! This woman was unfit, someone should call DCF.

When I had baby number two I began to loosen up. I realized that with two I would have to learn how to juggle. Having the second made me feel like I was a member of the Cirque du Soleil tribe. Spending my days trying to chase miniature contortionists who went running from me naked through the halls after bath time.  I will be honest and tell you that bottle sterilization took a back seat, and when the pacifier fell on the floor I would suck on it to disinfect it. Baby number two slept in the bed with me and I am positive I fell asleep several times while breastfeeding.  Shit happens and no one sleeps when an infant in the house. Baby number two gave me some serious perspective on what being a Mom looks like. Not the Mom on the cover of the parenting magazine, the Mom that has no nanny, cooks and cleans her own dishes, and sometime goes a few days without a shower.

Number three, my special surprise blessing never had a bottle sterilized. I can guarantee that I used tap water to mix his formula bottles, and I fed him rice cereal at one month to see if I could get him to sleep longer. He was placed in several shopping carts with no seat covers, and was dropped at daycare with one shoe on multiple occasions. “I told you to put on your shoes, you didn’t listen, good luck with your day.” My daycare provider will attest to this. I’m not proud, but you got to learn how to roll.  Last week he picked up a Cheeto from the car seat, ate it, and proceeded to tell me it was soggy. It must have been at least a few months old, I don’t even remember buying Cheetos. I have also caught him licking the bottom of his boots after a trip to the local Rodeo.  The petting zoo may not have been the best idea.

Nine years later I can safely say I was a clueless first time Mom. Mind you, it’s not your fault when you are a beginner Mom. There is absolutely no way to decide how to do this job. No book can prepare you, and no matter what anyone says it doesn’t always come natural.  “What to Expect” the series did me no favors.  I can safely say nine years later that “Go the Fuck to bed” is a more riveting and truthful tale about parenting.  I wish someone had given me that book as a baby shower gift. “Congratulations on your baby, you’re never going to sleep again Bitch.”

Now, life with an 8, 5, and 4-year-old is hectic and far from perfect. As we sat there trading war stories at the table, my girlfriend with four kids began to tell about her weekend adventure. She and her husband went to a concert and had a bit too much fun while tailgating. It seems as though that bitch named Fireball whiskey had the audacity to ambush my friend on her night away from the kids. After a few glasses of wine and a couple of shots, that was all she wrote.  My poor friend went home drunk as a skunk, praying to the porcelain God who showed her no mercy. We can’t drink like we did in college anymore and what was once a morning hangover now tends to linger for a few days.

When she got home to her children, she was unable to feed the baby. Her youngest is 6 months old and breastfeeding him would be like tapping a keg during spring break. She continued to tell us how she needed to feed the baby but he wouldn’t take a formula bottle. Pumping and dumping would be a necessity for at least the next six hours.  Luckily her sister-in-law lives across the street, also has a 6 month old baby. She ran across the street and asked, “Can I borrow your breast milk?” To which her sister-in-law happily offered up.

I will never forget the look on the faces of the first time Mom’s as they listened to this story. It was priceless.  They were mortified to think that she was giving her child someone else’s Boobie juice. They looked at my friend like I looked at the Mom in Wal-Mart so many years before.  I couldn’t contain myself. I began to laugh uncontrollably. As a mother of four, when your kids got to eat you find a way to feed him. In all reality it doesn’t matter which cow the milk came from. It brought me back to being a first time Mom and that feeling of control I thought I had.  It made me realize how resourceful we become as mothers and how learning to let go is necessary to survival. I applaud my friend. She is a survivor and one hell of a Mama.

So please don’t be offended by my rant if you are a new mother. I am not judging you. I was you.  I am letting you know that it’s ok to let it go and relax. At the end of the day, count heads, fingers and toes. If all the numbers add up, you did one hell of a job.  Your child will eat its buggers, fall and get hurt, cover himself in Desitin, and paint pictures with their poop.  Asking for help is vital.  The saying is true; it takes a village to raise a child, a village of breastfeeding loons that is. So never shy away, and when needed just ask, “Can I borrow your breast milk?”

It was a Monday morning after an exhausting weekend. I looked down and saw my gas light lite up like Christmas morning. Awesome, I am on my way to drop the kids at school and as usual we will be late. I haven’t been on time for anything in the past ten years. I honestly can’t remember an event where I was first to arrive. I pulled into the gas station and jumped out of the car to fill up the Hot Mom Machine. I swipe my credit card and it asks me a very simple question. “Please enter zip code” I sat there for 30 seconds frozen with fear. I had excessively early Alzheimer’s onset. I had no fucking clue what my zip code was. I mean, I have lived in the same town my entire life. I began to recite my address and still to no avail. What was happening to me? Why couldn’t I remember my zip code? I looked into the van and I saw the culprits. Three small brain-washers, sitting with lunch boxes and backpacks.

Finally, after five minutes of brain cell hide and seek it comes to me and I enter the numbers. I stood there in utter disbelief. What was happening to me? Why is it so hard to complete daily tasks that shouldn’t take even an ounce of brain power? I got back into the Mini and turned on the radio. “Mom, put on what does the Fox Say.” “No, I cannot listen to that song one more time. “ We all know what the fox is going to say. He says the same thing every time we listen to the song.” Those Swedish sons of Bitches have made my radio life a living hell for over a year now. Damn geniuses.

I pull into the drop off-line and park. Out go two out of the three master minds and I am on my way with the third. After everyone is safely at school I begin my trek home to perform the tasks ahead of me. My mind still wondering where the zip code I had known for so many years had disappeared to. As I pulled into my driveway it hit me. I have hit rock bottom of sleep deprivation. I can’t remember the last time I had eight hours of consecutive sleep.

It has been a decade since I went to bed and woke up refreshed and ready to conquer the day. I sat sad and still for a moment. I knew why I hadn’t slept in years. I can’t solely blame the poop machines, but they are a big part of it. Three kids in your queen size bed is a math problem that cannot be solved. One Miniature schnauzer and a husband that snore add to the equation. Shopping lists that run through your mind at 2:30 A.M, and getting up to pee at least once will demolish any respite. These are common problems of any mother. But this leads me to a very interesting question. What could I do if I had 8 consecutive hours of sleep?

This was a very fascinating thought. Would it be possible to have every load of laundry done? Would dirty dishes in the sink be a thing of the past? Would I be P.T.O. President of my kid’s school? No, fuck that! I would be President of the United States. Watch out Obama. With 8 hours of consecutive sleep I would rule over the land. I would be unstoppable. Just think. It would be amazing. I could sit in that Oval office ordering around my constituents’, demanding change. Passing laws left and right stating that Fathers are required to get up in the middle of the night and change diapers and get the 19th glass of water. Perhaps I have watched too many House of Cards episodes. No, I don’t think I will enter a life of politics, but I will fantasize about those precious hours of sleep that evade me.

In reality I have no idea what my day would look like with 8 hours of sleep under my belt. I am not sure once you become a parent that it is even possible. I do know that at the end of the day I am the good kind of tired. The kind of tired that comes from productivity and a sense of accomplishment.  But you better bet your sweet ass that when my kids are grown and gone I will be chewing Ambien like Tic Tacs and sleeping like a baby.


I am officially at the point in my life where going anywhere to do anything that is not accompanied by my children or husband is a secret relief.  No matter what I am doing, it seems that someone wants to take my peace and quiet away. I can’t even take a shit without several people walking in and asking nonsensical questions. If I do lock the doorknob, my toddler slips his cute little fingers under the door, giving me the two-minute warning. You know the one, “get your ass out of there or we are going to burn the house down around you.”

I recently had the pleasure of going to the gynecologist. It was time for my annual and I was excited for this anticipated quiet break.  Most women may hate going to the gynecologist, but I welcome the invasive experience because it is the only doctor’s appointment that my husband agrees the kids shouldn’t be a part of.  With three kids, a full-time job, husband, and a house sucking the life out of me, getting a 15 minute vaginal probing is a nice relaxing alternative. My last visit began rather unassuming. The waiting room was empty. It was calm. I sipped on my Starbucks and read a ridiculous article about 10 ways to make your husband happy. I scoffed softly as I read about the importance of not keeping score in marriage, and why it’s “ok” to admit you’re wrong. Amused, I was escorted back into the examination room. A pleasant nurse greeted me and began to ask the same questions you get each year at you visit. You know the questions, the ones you lie about. “How many alcoholic drinks do you consume in a week?” “How often do you do a self-breast exam? How many rocks of crack do you smoke to calm your nerves after a day of hell with your three beautiful blessings?”  I was given my trendy paper gown to slip into and laid back on the table.

It was so quiet. I closed my eyes to rest, but in walks Dr. Soft hands. We call him this because his hands are as smooth as velvet. How physically taxing could eyeing a vagina be? It’s not manual labor by any stretch.  We exchange pleasantries and he begins my breast exam. As he asks me to raise my arms above my head he begins to tell me about his kid failing math. He is in the middle of pulling my nipples like salt water taffy and I have to listen to why geometry is not his son’s strong suit. He then proceeds to tell me that he can feel all of my ribs and the lack of breast tissue. “Have you ever considered breast implants? He asks? Did he really just try to sell me a set of tits in the middle of my examination? I know my set is less than desirable, but as I tell me kids; “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.” Plus, I don’t have eight thousand dollars to throw around on a sweet set of C’s. Believe me, I thought about it.

He continues to the main event.  As I await the cold kiss of the metal speculum he states the normal warnings. “This is going to be cold. You will feel some pressure.” Got it doc, this is not my first rodeo. As my legs are shooting a V for Victory and he is elbow deep in my uterus he naturally asks me, “Did you play sports in college?” I was taken aback to say the least. What the fuck did he just ask me? How on earth do you come up with this question in the middle of a pelvic exam? Was he asking if I played sports, or if my vagina played sports?

Was my vagina whispering to him? Was she telling him a secret? Seriously, what kind of doctor asks that in the middle of an exam? It’s not like he checking my tonsils, he has his fingers on my cervix.  I looked at him and said hesitantly, “Yes, I played soccer. Why?” He continues with, “I could tell.” What the fuck does that mean? Was my vagina communicating with him? Was she telling him all of my secrets from my college days? She did play a mean game of beer pong.  Was he some type of Vagina whisper? I should call the television network TLC and fill them in about this guy; he could have a new syndicated reality show, “The Vagina Whisperer.” I sat there in silence pondering what my vagina was trying to tell him. Seemingly my vagina was much like my mouth, unable to keep quiet. I should have known better, my nickname is the vault. I do have a hard time keeping secrets, apparently so does my vagina. The visit ended and I got dressed. That was the last time Dr. Softhands saw my flattened tits or had a conversation with my vagina.


This past weekend I attended a family gathering that we have hosted for the past nine years. We live in a small town with a R.V. park that has an annual Halloween fest. Each year will haul the trailer out to the site and drink, eat, and camp until we pass out. Four years ago it turned into a birthday party for my youngest son because it fell on his birthday. This year I was getting the kids ready for the weekend asking what they were going to be for Halloween. My daughter, Queen Elsa from Frozen, my youngest, Batman, and my oldest, Captain Underpants. If you do not know who Captain Underpants is, let me fill you in. Captain Underpants is a book series where a middle school boy creates an alter ego who is a super hero character. This character wears nothing but a red cape and a pair of tighty whitey’s.  I thought about this for a minute before I responded. “So let me get this straight, you want to walk around a trailer park full of people in a red cape and underwear?”  He plainly stated “Yes.”

The party began and the park began to fill up. I was running around making sure all the food was ready and the coolers stocked with drinks. The kids begin to pour into our site dressed as pirates, super heroes, princesses, and vampires. I turned around just in time to see my eight year old open the camper door and walk into the middle of the lot in his red cape, underwear, and sneakers. He had no shame. He looked as though he was born to do this. I couldn’t believe how brave he was. I never thought I would be so proud of my son while he was standing in the middle of a crowd beaming with pride dressed only in his underwear.

Later that evening the Halloween festivities began. At dark we began to venture through the campsite trick or treating at each camper. The thought of how proud of him still stuck in my head.  We saw a ton of cute costumes, tiny doctors, robots, Star Wars characters, and much more. It wasn’t until I saw some of the adults in costume that I realized that there is a thin line between brave and what the hell were you thinking.

While trick or treating we came across a roughly 35-year old mom in a full onesie cheetah suite, complete with tail and ears. To say the suite hugged every curve like racecar tires on the speedway of the Daytona 500 would be an understatement. The outfit simply accompanied by a pair of clear wedge heels and whiskers. What on earth made this woman think that this was a good idea? Where were her friends when she suited up? Why didn’t someone intervene and fill her in? I’m sure her thought was sexy jungle cat, but it looked like a feline fiasco.  Onesies are not a good look, specifically due to the fact that they are in the adult clothing section at every Wal-Mart. Shame on you Wal-Mart, for making this woman think this was a good idea.

Later we ran into a bad cop in her mid-fifties. She should have been issued a citation for showing excessive cheek-age.  The scene continued with a slew of sexy vampires who made me wish I was wearing garlic deodorant and several attempts at animal costumes gone wrong. Why do people try to make animals sexy? Have you ever heard a guy tell you he thought his cat was super-hot? If so, please run. What makes you think a kitty cat would be so sexy? I’ve seen my in-laws cat eat its own shit out of the litter box.

Why do people think that they can turn any idea into a sexy Halloween costume? At 34 and a mother of three my breasts do not sit where they once did, nor do my ass cheeks.  It is my duty to keep my deflated milk jugs covered and away from the moon light on all Hallows Eve. Ass less chaps are reserved for strippers and porno films; please do not break them out on Halloween, there are no suitable excuses for that.

So with that being said, I digress. Think twice about your costume choice and get a second opinion before you trick or treat this year. Brave at eight looks a lot different from what the hell were you thinking at middle-aged.


This may sound strange, but your husband might be a genius. How do I know this you might ask? Well, my husband is so smart that he knows what I need even before I do. Let me give you a few examples…

Last week I walked in from the grocery store with my three blessings. Unbeknownst to me, I had dog crap on the bottom of my shoe, which I proceeded to track through the entire house.  I look down at my shirt and realize that I have some type of bodily fluid smeared across my clothes, the most likely culprit being my 5 year olds runny nose. I am certain everyone at Publix noticed; however they are so nice there that they didn’t even mention it.  As I carried in the last of the groceries, exhausted from my day, my loving husband in his infinite wisdom brings me a gift. Yes, a gift! He leans over and softly whispers in my ear,” I know what will make you feel better, some of this hot loving”, as he grabs my tired and beaten down butt cheek.

It was like one of those Oprah “Ah Ha” moments. The Heavens opened up, angels were singing, and the realization hit me. He was right. All I could think about all day while I was working, cooking, doing laundry, chasing and hog tying naked children, and cleaning dog crap off the floor was “Man, I got to get some of that sweet loving.” I mean, I was baffled as to how I could make it through the day without showing up at his office and throwing him down on his desk? My Mensa candidate had it right.  Seriously, ladies don’t you find yourself drooling mid-day about the delight that awaits you at home in the evening hours? Do you ask yourself, “Why can’t I get more of this?” Or “I should be paying for this, how on earth does he let me have this for free?”  I hope other women don’t find out and start beating down the door. I will have to start taking kick boxing classes on top of all the other shit I do every day just to keep my man safe from shady hoes.

Example number two. I was in the middle of making dinner the other night. Pots and pans are sizzling, and water is boiling over. I can’t find the last feaking egg that I know was in the fridge 10 minutes ago, and if you know me, the oven is smoking. I’ve got one kid jumping from one couch cushion to the next. Then, my daughter comes out of her room wearing a skirt, no shirt, socks, and a pair of Cinderella’s dress up heels, or what we affectionately call “stripper shoes”. I ask her “why no shirt?” She dramatically tells me “the boys don’t have to wear shirts, so I don’t either”. I gently explain to her that nice girls cover their nipples, because “you aren’t supposed to give it away for free.”  Next thing I know I hear a terrifying scream and several f-bombs coming from the bathroom. I run in and see my three year old coved in poop, head to toe. As I peered in on this fiasco I see my husband throw up his hands and say, “I’m out”. At that moment in time my Einstein of a husband knew that I wanted to drop everything that I was doing at that minute and Lysol wipe the crap off of my three year old. The feces was not only on the bottom his feet, his hands, legs, butt, and back, but he had somehow managed to get poop under the toilet seat. When I asked my husband, owner and C.E.O. of The Brain Trust how he knew I wanted to take care of that situation, he so eloquently told me,” Honey, I know how you like the bathroom to be clean so I knew you would want to do this”. As I stood there washing the doo doo off my hands I realized, this man is a fucking Genius.